Poetry
by demoness-sweet
Summary: Brian lived poetry. Before he met Weiss. Because Weiss was poetry...in all its forms. SLASH Brian/Pollution


A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed "Scent" with its Pepper/War femslash. I'd already thought about Brain/Pollution, just never got round to it, also afraid of getting my head beaten in with a Crowley-fed duck. Enjoy, and review if you want me to churn out more.   
  
Warnings: SLASH. Brian/Pollution  
  
  
Poetry  
~~~~~~~  
  
Brian lived poetry.   
  
The classic lines of Longfellow, the free genius of Whitman, the timeless sonnets of Shakespeare, the powerful verses of Hughes, Brian breathed and dreamed in them all.  
  
Brian liked semi-sweet chocolate, grass-stained football jerseys and nature, though not as much as Pepper, who lived in ginger blossoms and had fresh leaves growing from her eyes. He liked the clean air, the assortments of smells, the colors that were everywhere. He would lay under a tree, pretending he was a poet of old, dying with golden words rolling off his tongue.   
  
That was before he met Weiss.   
  
Weiss was beautiful and Weiss was quiet and Weiss was evil like cancer was evil, slow growing but never stopping, just a silent. insinuating. evil. power.   
  
Brian wasn't stupid. He knew full well who Weiss was. He was eleven when Weiss had shown up, a slim, wavering figure in that monstrous gelatin that heaved and roiled like a living thing. But he had remembered white hands and white feet and a white face, and hair like undyed silk. And eyes like quartz. Not the pink kind that even his mother had in her kitchen, but opaque white opals.   
  
When Weiss entered his life quietly as he did always, Brian did not even notice. It was when he lifted his mouth from soft white lips tasting of sweet, musky cotton and addictive fumes that he realized that he was in trouble. Then he looked into heavy-lidded eyes of flawed crystal... and found that he really didn't give a damn.   
  
So Weiss stayed. And even if Brian's apartment wasn't ever the same again, even if it was a little dusty on top of the chaos of lost socks and year-old take-out, Brian didn't mind. But despite the quiet nights of Bryant and even quieter days of Irving, there was always something growing softly, creeping non-intrusively in the back of his mind.   
  
A man stopped him on the street once, a small, plump dark-skinned man with dark glasses and an accent smelling of sand and spices and fire. He had merely said "Good luck. They who are neither of earth nor of sun nor of sky do not stay." When Brian had turned angrily, prepared to retort, there was no sign of the man, just a pale yellow streak in the air. The something grew stronger.   
  
When Brian stepped out of the building one morning a bird fell at his feet. As Brian stroked the patches of feathers left, closed the rigid beak with its slime-green tongue worming out, tried to relax the gnarled feet something inside of him broke. Brian felt Dante's Inferno start to burn inside, and Poe's dagger was cold against his chest.  
  
When he came home from work Weiss was gone. Somehow, Brian could not be surprised, could not be sorry, could not regret.   
  
The next few seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, millenia, eternities were the worse of his life. Plath placed her hands upon his throat and squeezed, pleasure and pain mixed in one cold white hand. Crane's bitter irony was like acid on skin in the middle of a freezing cold night. He needed warmth and heat.   
  
Pepper had stared quietly as he explained, then stood up and slapped him sharply across the face. She had stalked into the house and slammed the door. Brian had looked, uncomprehending, at the stumps of trees too tired to live, the dry, dead grass, the river that foam roiled across and fishes floated upon. His cheek burned with hot fire, and he thought he saw a figure sitting on the bank. A poet dying, with words of gold upon his ashy lips. Brian shook his head and the figure was gone.   
  
The next few weeks London was beautiful. Brian could not find a single can or skittering dirty rag. Even the air smelled fresh and clean. The sun shone and the sky was a pale blue and the rain had stopped. Families strolled outside and children played, laughter sounding on the wind.   
  
Brian stared out the window. He could find no poetry.   
  
Then things went back to normal. Brian had just let the tears drip down when he saw the dust picking up, half-heartedly at first, then in little dust-devils. He had asked for a day of leave, and left. At home, he cleaned up all his clothing, mopped the floors, vacuumed, and dusted until there wasn't a single surface that he couldn't see his face in. Then he had gone out, bought four bottles of whiskey, and tried to drown himself.   
  
Brian now picked up every scrap of trash he found while walking home or to work or even on vacation. He volunteered for Earth Day, he planted trees. And every time he looked into a broken bottle or a scrap of old newspaper he'd see Weiss.  
  
Brian was no poet. He was just a man who lived poetry. And poetry in its true form was slim and white, with bleached silk hair, and eyes like colorless cracked bottles and a kiss like snow-touched angel dust.  
  
  
  
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Well, yeah, so that's my contribution to the world instead of my Chemistry homework. Yeesh. If you review I will once again procrastinate and disregard redox in favor of GO slash.   
  
And read my tiny epic "Angels We Have Heard On High" WIP, and AU and Aziraphale singing opera as a castrati in Italy with Crowley being extremely seduisant.   
  
  
* 


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